


Bedrock

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [12]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, M/M, Unrequited Love, Wartime, near misses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:00:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: A casual save.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan/Alessio Rossi
Series: Tender Mercies [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175





	Bedrock

August, 2010 -- [LOCATION REDACTED]

Rana and Rospo stand at the bottom of the trail and peer up for a long while as the rest of them pack away their little camp, glancing at the surrounding hills and mountains with poorly hidden trepidation. The barrels of their twin M82s tower over their shoulders, the rifles nearly the length of a grown man, and when Rossi meanders close and prods at them over their silence, Rospo only throws his cigarette to the dirt and grinds it out with the toe of his boot, spits, and mutters, “exposed the whole way. Easy targets for any sniper worth their salt.” He’s the veteran of their unit, the oldest and longest serving, and his grizzled face makes his partner look almost cherubic in comparison, most of the time. Now, Rana only gives their motley crew a nervous glance before turning his eyes skyward once more, and fiddles absently with the straps on his gear.

It has, unsurprisingly, set a rather somber tone for the trek. 

The soft grey-blue shale stone of the mountain crumbles underfoot like sand as they climb the treacherous and slick paths leading up a nearly sheer cliff face. The wind against their backs is frigid, smells faintly of acrid smoke. Their entire squad is burdened with gear, sweat clinging to the napes of their necks and drenching their uniforms as they slowly, painstakingly, make their way up to the fire base already nestled in the valley between two craggy peaks. They’re meant to use the hastily constructed base as a touchstone for their next assignment, and bring relief and supplies to the men already nestled away there. It’s a terrible idea-- a terrible location, a terrible plan, but there’s no other way to get there but by helicopter, and the last four that tried were nearly brought down by RPGs and small arms fire alike. One pilot had cheerfully showed Tahan the bullet hole in the bottom of his foot and affectionately called it ‘running the gauntlet’. 

They don’t speak during the trek. It’s bad enough that every crumbled and loose rock they send slipping seems to fall forever, and the echoes of them last even longer than that, radiating through the canyon endlessly and announcing their presence to anyone within miles, likely. Tahan, who grew up nestled at the foot of the alps, at least fares better than some, struggling for breath and footing as they are in the thin air. He fares better than Rossi, who grew up on the sea, in the south. They’re supposed to keep a distance of three meters from one another to make targeting them from a distance just a little more difficult, but as the six of them slog forward, they bunch occasionally, settling a hand on the shoulder in front of them to help keep balance, or lifting the bottom of their pack to help them climb a sheer step without using their hands. 

It’s lucky then, that he stops watching how close he’s getting to Rossi, watching for movement on the opposite cliff face instead. When the younger man’s feet slide out from under him it takes him only a millisecond to catch his elbow, and the shoulder of his uniform, and drag all 117 kilograms of him and his gear back to his feet with a harsh grunt. The rock he’d been sliding on slips neatly off the lip of the trail, and they listen to it fall for a long time, clutching each other until it finally crashes against the ground below. Tahan looks at Rossi. Rossi, wide-eyed, stares back. 

Tahan pats his chest, awkwardly, and then brushes some of the dust clinging to the seat of his pants and the bottom of his pack off. Gunfire echoes in the far distance, but nothing close enough for them to worry about now. Rossi takes a deep breath, eyes him, trailing his gloved fingers over Tahan’s jaw for just a moment, patting his cheek, and then he turns away with a long sigh.

They carry on.


End file.
